That beautiful red rose is sitting on the sill,
But as a mother who’s lost her son, the blooming rose does mourn.
Cut from its root and set on this spot against its will,
Oh, this poor rose lies in the window so forlorn.

Its sits there for days on end,
Each soul stops by to admire,
Down to the small vessel they do bend,
And many a poem the pretty blossom inspired.

And then the delicate flower starts to wilt,
Its once rosy rims start to brown,
And over the edge the bud does tilt,
To earn nothing but a melancholy frown.

It was such a sad and depressing sight to see,
Of that once wonderful rose that can no longer be.